


beneath dark arches

by kreia (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: angst with a dash of survivor guilt, character study ayy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2176521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/kreia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jagged fragments of Harriet Cousland's life before and after the Blight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beneath dark arches

**Author's Note:**

> title is taken from one of anna ahkmatova's wonderful poems.

It was a cloudless night.

Harriet ran a few paces behind Duncan, her feet numb and heart heavy. Memories of the slaughter replayed in her mind as they hurried through the silent forest, the cacophony of dying men’s screams ringing in her ears. It felt like an event that happened years ago, though the pain in her legs and the bruises on her body told her otherwise.

 _Go_ , she would still hear.

 _Live_.

She would kill Arl Howe, she swore, even if it were the last thing she would ever do.

The woods of Highever unfolded before them, and she wondered how they would even get out of here–a dozen men were probably not far behind, chasing them down like escaped prisoners. She’d only ever gone out once this deep into the swampy woods before, when she was still young and daring and foolish. It would have been exciting if she weren't being crushed slowly with grief.

The stars stood witness to their hurried escape, making silent watch as Harriet dashed through the cramped trees and the low-hanging boughs that scraped her skin. She was too distraught to bother unsheathing her sword to defend herself from the forest. Her hound reared his head upwards and howled, chilling her to the bone. Harriet could feel the agitation in it, and pain. Closing in on a small clearing leading to a narrow path toward the hills, she paused mid-run, gasping and out of breath. Her head spun. Everything felt like a dream she would surely wake up from soon.

Turning to look back, she saw her home in flames, drafts of black smoke rising up to the sky.

 

 

 

“Father will kill us if he sees this!” Fergus whispered to his sister, fidgeting with a broken piece of rusting steel in his hands. “We shouldn't have gone here in the first place!”

“Oh stop it, will you? We’re both to blame here.”

Harriet’s brows creased, pondering on how they should tell their father about the incident. Breaking an ancient heirloom wasn't their original intention! She clutched the hilt gingerly in her small hands, carefully angling the jagged end away from her.

They moved silently among the bushes, evading the sudden patrol guard now and then. Sunlight filtered in through the gardens, the courtyard by their far left ringing with the sounds of men sparring and jesting crudely among themselves. Excitement coursed through her. The thought of danger just lurking around in a corner somewhere thrilled her immensely. She had always been fond of games like these; hiding and waiting until one eventually makes a mistake and she caught them, and then stabbed them softly with her wooden plank of a sword.

Fergus hated her for the stabbing part, specifically, while Harriet considered it revenge for the times he’d put mud in her hair and she’d run to the wash room screaming until her mother came.

 “You worry too much, brother,” she chided when they are in the hallway leading to her room, the sensation of success dulling her previous fears.

Fergus began to laugh but stifled it quickly, suddenly nervous of the shadow looming in front of them.

When Harriet saw who it was, she didn't falter in her words. She pulled on the best sorrowful face she could muster. “It broke all by itself, Father.”

“Oh? The guards have reported to me otherwise, and your mother will be most displeased with the both of you.”

Harriet’s heart sank as she realized that the guards knew all along. Such traitors, she thought.”Please don’t tell mother we broke it, we really didn't! Fergus was there and he saw-“

Fergus, as if on cue, stepped forward and tried to reason with the teyrn. “We were reaching for the shield but the sword was strapped onto it and we had to pull out the sword first-“

“Hush, now. I’ll have the smith remake this, though I can’t fathom how the two of you broke it. Maker help me reason to your mother.” The teyrn rubbed his forehead gingerly. “You know she values these heirlooms very dearly, and so should you.” Bryce reached for the hilt from Harriet and the blade in Fergus’s hands, both of them giving him the fragments willingly. Fergus gave his father an apologetic look.

“I know, Father,” said Harriet, “I’m sorry I took the key from your room and–” Eyes widening, she buried her face in her hands and let her dark hair fall around her.

Her brother failed to hide his amusement this time, and so did the teyrn, giving his mischievous daughter a weary laugh.

”Yes, pup, I know. You do always find a way.”

 

 

 

The torch was lit, but the darkspawn had found their way into the tower once more. Harriet cursed to herself. _Something_ was happening in the battle below, but if they could not get past these creatures, then they’d probably be too late to do anything about it, whatever it was. Uneasiness burrowed in her. _Or maybe it’s simply your inability to trust the chain of command_ , she thought to herself.

“We have to go!” Harriet screamed.

Then a blade sprouted from the mage’s chest.

She ran toward the man but several arrows pinned her down, the arrowheads piercing flesh right through the armor. She staggered back and fell. She could hear Alistair shouting words she couldn't comprehend, her vision darkening. She could feel the warm weight of the blood against her underclothes. _Not now_ , she thought, searching for her sword. Dying felt like she was burning. _Not now._

There were more shouts. She could faintly hear steel clashing, growls and shrieks seemingly distant until she began to hear an entirely different kind of sound.

It was as if she was being sung a lullaby. Sweet and soft as her mother’s, but harsher, somehow. Her heart ached to follow its call, despite her injuries. Yet she could also feel the faint tug of the Fade, and unable to endure the weariness she felt through her whole being, Harriet closed her eyes to the pandemonium surrounding her, and succumbed willingly to her wounds.

The last thing she remembered was a black talon wrapping itself around her, magic swathed in its iron grip.

 

 

 

In her dreams, she watches them die all over again.

She sees little Oren torn from her mother’s grasp by a shadow as black as night and hears Oriana’s shrill screams echo in the burning battlefield.

The sky is grey and there are flames everywhere, running along the walls and burning the soldiers caught in its way.

She sees her father bewildered by the Arl’s sudden betrayal, dark stains spreading around the dagger thrust in his side. The teyrna running with her bow in hand chased by soldiers made of shadow. Harriet tried and could not move, forced to watch all these horrors as she lay paralyzed in a bed she recognized dimly was her own. Licks of flames slowly caught the edges of the sheets.

In her dreams, she watches all of them burn.

 

 

 

She arrived in Ostagar disheveled and blank-eyed, her leather armor battered.

The king seemed to be telling her about the justice that will be served to Howe after the war. She tried not to laugh. It wasn't justice she wanted, but vengeance. She wanted him half-dead beneath her, bloody and broken and begging for his life.

The only good thing about that morning had been news of Fergus, yet he was out of reach, either dead or lost, like everyone else. She didn't know if she could bear losing her brother too.

After her botched welcome from the king, Duncan gently put a hand on her shoulder. A kind expression was on his face–one that was not of pity, Harriet observed through tired eyes.

“I will not ask you to forgo your sorrow, Harriet, but you must understand that your duties as a Grey Warden, Joined or not, will always come first from now on.”

She looked up at him. “I know. I won’t run, Duncan.” _I’m stronger than I look_ , she wanted to say.

After a while, he nodded and removed his grasp. “Now go find Alistair. You still have much to do before the Joining itself, and I will not be able to guide you through it right now, so he will have to suffice. Do you have any questions?”

Harriet shrugged. “A hot meal would be fine, though.” She stooped down to rub her hound behind the ears, his tail wagging furiously at the mention of food. “And a bath.”

 “Of course,” said Duncan, chuckling softly. “ I’ll take care of your Mabari until then.”

 

The servants at the Wardens’ camp had no idea who Harriet was, but served her dutifully at Duncan’s behest, albeit with a few curious glances at the filthy girl with dried blood on her armor. It had taken her the better part of the hour taking it off, unclasping the clumsily patched straps, the sticky leather clinging to her skin and her curses echoing within the small stone-walled quarters.

Smoke rose from the shallow wooden tub as she soaked herself into it. Sighing, she rested her head against the edge of the bath. A pile of neatly folded clothes were laid on the table, and beside them, a small silver-backed mirror. Her small array of weaponry was there, too: her sword, the discarded pieces of leather and mail, and a plain unsheathed dagger. She didn't recall seeing the servant bring a mirror with her when she came in. A small kindness for her, perhaps.

Harriet rose from the warm water and strode to the table. She reached for the mirror. Now that she had fully washed the grime and blood off her face, the reflection in the small mirror stared back with deep sunken dark eyes, a weary expression on her features. She combed a hand through her wet hair, grimacing at the endless tangles in it as she forced her hand lower. Reaching the dripping ends, she gathered the whole weight of her hair and let it fall down her shoulders, the beloved dark length spilling past her breasts and onto her hips. She reveled in the silken comfort of it.

She looked in the mirror again and saw a glimpse of Harriet Cousland, proud and unbroken, despite everything.

But one glimpse of her lost identity was not enough to make her whole again, and she had to keep moving. She had to distance herself as far as possible from the smoked ruins of the castle, or be lost among the rubble forever.  Daylight filtered in through the small high window, glinting on naked steel.

Holding thick locks in one hand, the dagger in another, she began to cut her hair.

 

 

 

Harriet approached the cup Duncan held with reluctance. She would be no one once she did this, or worse–dead. But it was the only way forward, to get her closer to achieving her vengeance, so she acquiesced. Besides, she had nothing left to lose.

“If I die,” she said weakly to Duncan before the Joining, “please find Fergus. Tell him everything. It’s all I ask.”

Duncan nodded, his voice grave. “I will.”

The silver chalice was warm to the palms of her hands as she tilted it down her mouth. She noticed briefly the vast canopy of stars overhead as she did.  The pungent smell of darkspawn blood and magic was enough to make her feel like she was dying already. It made her feel heady as she drank the blood, her throat gagging at the warm liquid forcing itself into her body.  Harriet could feel the taint growing in her with each gulp she took. She was reminded of an hourglass being tipped upside down, its sand quickly running out.

 

 

 

Her father had many terms of endearment for her when she was a child.

Dear, darling, princess, pup, and, whenever he was cross with her he would name her his thorn. She found herself remembering them now, and what he’d call mother and Fergus when he was in a certain mood. She had rather liked it whenever he called her his _wolfling_ , as if their family was a pack, inseparable and strong. It felt right. Harriet would listen attentively to him as he told her tales of the werebeasts that had plagued their lands so long ago, including the dangerous white wolves that lived in the northern forests that preyed upon unfortunate travelers. She listened to all this with fascination and thought, _one day I will lead my own pack, and tell them of the same stories as well._

Her mother would also come read her books at times, but they were more about knights and dashing princes sweeping through the countryside, riding upon their stallions saving countless of people with their prowess in battle. Harriet was torn between wanting to be a reputed Chevalier of Orlais or a fierce wolf of the North.

But it seems that fate had quite the little irony for her, placing her instead within the tale of the fabled Grey Wardens, soldiers sworn to fight against a never ending nightmare, to keep vigil against the darkness until their short lives had run their length. She could not be a wild wolf now, or become a famous knight wearing shining white armor. Those dreams of hers had turned to ashes the night she left home, a lone pup lost among the carcasses of her pack.

 

 

 

The camp was silent, its denizens apparently asleep, or busying themselves somewhere else. She alone was sitting in front of the fire tonight, its cracking sounds and warmth a welcome distraction to her otherwise chaotic life–not that fire wasn't a symbol of chaos itself, but the one she was facing seemed content enough to stay where it was, and that gave Harriet comfort, in the very least.

A vivid pain in her right shoulder made her gasp, flesh and skin still barely holding itself together. The apostate’s dagger had caught her by surprise, burying itself past her chain mail. She made sure he died a slow, painful death.

Morrigan treated her with magic and put more poultices on it than she cared to smell again, rendering her shield arm useless for now. The witch had chided her for not staying put, her words passive and uncaring, but Harriet smiled secretly when she was not looking. Sometimes it was easier to show your concern by telling someone tales of wounded Chasind folk being left behind to be eaten by wolves before gently reminding one to ‘drink your soup, lest it gets cold.’

Oghren had never seen a more eager student to learn his art of fighting with pure rage, since then.”You could stare a darkspawn to death now, Warden. Just saying,” he said, before belching aloud. Harriet simply laughed as he struggled with words once more, staying true to his talent of staggering from a stupor all the time.

Harriet smiled at the recollections, still amused at the fact that her ragged band of assassins, apostates, bards, bastards and disgruntled warriors would be the ones standing with her during the fight against the darkspawn. They were all deadly in their own way, though, and their skills had done her life’s well-being a great service.

There were times they even felt like family.

 

 

 

Her hands were trembling, even as she tried her hardest for them not to.

The dungeons were cramped; the walls were slick with fresh blood and grime. The sickening smell of corpses assailed her senses.

“Lovely,” Zevran muttered from behind.

“At least it’s not darkspawn,” said Harriet, chuckling.

A trio of guards burst out from one of the torture rooms, their mails unevenly clasped and spattered with blood. It was almost a shame to kill them unprepared, as the last of them went down holding his throat, blood spilling out uncontrollably. Harriet did not bother wiping her blade clean of the blood, its blue-silver length shrouded by thick red. She’d had enough blood on it the past few months that she could not be bothered to count the toll anymore.

Anticipation coiled in her chest, her head light with it, hands clammy as she struck the last mage’s chest, green eyes briefly widening in disbelief before falling down on his knees with his hands splayed across his wounds, trying to stifle the stream of blood.

All that’s left was _him_. She would not even dare say his name in disgust.

He was clutching his side; blood sputtering as he mouthed lies after the other as he pulled free the thin blade Zevran lodged in his left side. The irony of his wound was not lost on Harriet, but she could not laugh. Not yet.

_Your father, he… he begged that I spare your mother but I... killed her first, oh yes I did, slit her… neck after I made her kiss my feet…_

Harriet did not speak, only pulled out a dagger and stood over his helpless form. She stepped on a still gushing wound on his leg, and he made a choking sound, blood and froth coming out of his mouth, his lies turning into incoherent pleas and strained gasps. Still, he tried cursing repeatedly everyone who had apparently wronged him.

She wanted to lash out at him, tell him the manner of monster that he was, the price she’s had to pay because of what he did, the magnitude of the things he’d done, but she felt as if she was collapsing in on the weight of her vengeance, her _duty_.

Slowly releasing her foot from his wound, she knelt beside him and watched him squirm at her proximity as she positioned the dagger above his chest in both hands.

_Maker... spit on you. I... deserved... better-_

Arl Howe gasped as the blade came down.

 

Only after had she closed her eyes and let herself truly weep, hysterical sobs wracking her chest. A hand pressed gently on her shoulder. A calm voice tried to soothe her–Leliana’s, she thought–but her words didn't register in Harriet just yet.

The hilt was still in her shaking hands, its blade deep in his heart.

 

 

 

Her companions made short work of the horde, tongues of flames leaping out onto the advancing darkspawn, spelled arrows flying from Leliana’s bow, frenzied strikes of the sword. Harriet wrenched hers free from the ogre’s twisted head, her chest heaving from exhaustion. _Almost there_. Two of the huge beasts lay on the stone floors with dozens of their smaller, twisted brethren around them in various states. Hearing a guttural growl from her left flank, she quickly raised her sword and sliced it into the air until it hit the creature’s throat, tainted blood spilling out from dead veins. Once a proud dwarf of Orzammar, she thought, from the gnarled short arms and heavy build. And now he or she was naught more than battle-fodder. She wondered if she would end up like that, a growling husk of the woman she was, nothing more than a slave to the taint that festered in her blood.

A loud voice shook her from her reverie and she stood still, her head pounding with the intensity of the Archdemon’s call, the power of its will pulling away at her, reverberating through her thoughts and the parries of her swords. Its echoes ate at the core of her like poison. She glanced around to see that her companions had heard it too, but to them, she knew, it would only be the faintest whisper, the gentlest hint of intrusion in their minds. It grew worse the closer she got to the top of the fort, and she all but mindlessly slashed at the countless foes around her like stuffed haystacks in training.

A sharp cry of anguish pierced through the fort, echoing within the cold walls and Harriet’s ears, and it felt as if she had been wounded too.

She raced to the tall doors leading to the battlements, not looking back to see if her companions followed suit. She had to silence the voice before it drove her completely mad. Bracing one of the doors open, the red sky opened to her, endless and ominous, threatening to swallow her whole.

The dragon spread its wings; one was whole, the other bloody and tattered. It let out a deafening roar before lowering its head to gaze at her with corrupted, ancient eyes as if to say, _I know what you are and what you seek._

Harriet gripped her blade tightly, and charged towards her fate.

 

 

 

After the bloodshed–mourning.

That much Harriet knew, going back to Highever. She knew the abyss of sorrow as much as she knew where to slice a person until she was drenched in warm scarlet. It wasn't something she’d tried to run away from, but now that the war was over, and the ghosts were waking up again, her nightmares returned.

Most nights Fergus came to her and held her close until she could fall asleep again, until she could wash away the memory of smoke and ashes from her mouth. She clung to him and sometimes forgot that he was as broken as her, and was trying to be strong for them both, just as he always tried to be, even when the burden wasn't his to carry.

She had never heard him scream nor trash in his sleep, nor did they talk about the nights that she did. They slept in their old rooms, some parts of the wall dark with soot, covered only by haphazard tapestry. Neither of them objected to it.

Harriet’s days in Highever went by in solitude. She would wander, then, like a tired pilgrim searching for an end to her journey, only to find more burned walls and empty hallways in front of her.

Once, she saw her brother in the training courtyard, hammering at the targets with an anguished expression on his face. She thought of the family sword, broken in half, so long ago. She thought of their father’s laugh, of mud in her hair.

She approached him, taking slow steps to his distraught form. “Fergus,” she said in a soft voice. “Please, brother.”

Fergus swung the sword over his head and struck the target mercilessly again, his actions becoming frenzied. Harriet simply stood there. She felt the stitches beneath her breast come undone, and winced at the pain. Blood pooled on the front of her gown. Still, she waited, and closed her eyes.

Then the sword clattered to the ground, the unpleasant sound echoing in the empty space. Harriet stayed where she was, even as she heard the choked sobs of Fergus. She would have thrown away everything–her titles and power and gold, just to never hear her brother break like that again.

 _It’s all my fault_ , she whispered, trembling. _I couldn't keep them safe._

She felt like they were nothing but ghosts, trapped to wander in the ruins forever.

 

 

 

“I still wish there was some way I could go with you,” said Harriet wistfully, side eyeing her brother as she made sure his armor was secure. Not that he needed it, but Harriet found herself uneasy with the arrangements that had been made during the day.

“Ah, sister, don’t fret so much. It’s probably just a band of a hundred darkspawn or so. No need to wound your pride about it.”

They both knew that wasn't the case, but Harriet grinned and pulled hard at one of the straps. Fergus gasped and tried to reach for it. “I can’t... breathe!”

“Liar. Make sure to kill a hundred of them for me.  A hundred, you hear? Promise me.”

“Just... loosen... the... damn... thing!”

“No, you idiot, promise me first,” said Harriet, laughing at the spectacle Fergus made, flailing around, not quite able to reach the shoulder strap. Her arms crossed, she leaned against the pillar behind her. She smiled at the soldiers who passed by and spared curious glances at their commander.

Finally, Fergus waved a hand in surrender, and sat on the stool. “Fine!”

“All done. I’ll see you when you’re back.” She embraced him and was turning to leave, when Fergus caught her wrist.

“If something happens... promise me you’ll take care of them.”

Harriet looked away for a moment, and gazed at the lines of soldiers by the gates, readying their gear. Their armors glinted in the cold moonlight. Not all those men would likely come back again.

 _War isn't something you should take lightly, Harriet,_ she remembered her mother saying once. _There’s no glory in watching the ones you love rot on a battlefield, far away from home._

“I swear it, Fergus.” She laid her free hand on his shoulder. “No harm will come to them as long as I live.”


End file.
